HellBoy: Personal Hell
by godsavant
Summary: Still running from his past, HellBoy seeks solitude in the urban commutes of New York City. But as destruction begins to follow in his wake, he must decide whether the vengeance for an age old friend is worth the last bits of his humanity...
1. Chapter 1

Yes, yes, hello to everybody…again. I'm taking time off from my Diablo II fiction (which has created quite a following) to write something more…modern. Which, you probably figured out, is based in the realm of the Dark Horse's smash-hit thriller, _HellBoy_. Never fear, my Diablo fic will be updated soon, but in the meantime, please enjoy the first installment of this new story, HellBoy: Personal Hell. I am, as always, eager to please, so please do not hesitate to comment about this story. Reviews are wanted and greatly appreciated.

PS- Some of the text is borrowed directly from the official comic scripts, but only as to progress the story.

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HELLBOY

PERSONALHELL

BY DAVID ZHANG INSPIRED BY THE WORKS OF MICHAEL MIGNOLA 

**Queens, New York City,**

**Subway Terminal 18,**

**8:27 PM **

'_I need a haircut.'_

Doctor Henry Lloyd Ratzinger sighed as he stepped onto the smelly, dirt-caked platform of New York Subway Terminal #18; it was not the first time he had been down here. No, he had walked these cheap, plastic tiles coated with wet, muddy footprints; had breathed and choked on the wet, humid air, filled with the stale smell of cigarette smoke and transmission fluids, many, many times before. He averted his gaze as he passed rows of the exact same glossy shoe advertisement sealed in bulletproof glass cases, like precious objects within a museum.

'_Mm_…_Security firm stock prices must be down lately'_, he thought nonchalantly to himself.

Of course, there was also the classic haggard, filthy beggar dressed in rags, lying sprawled in a pile of trash bags; Ratzinger could not tell if he was asleep or, in lack of better term, trashed, but from the spilled bottle of cheap beer near him, he guessed the latter.

He casually strode over to a magazine booth, and picked up a rather thin newspaper, pushing two quarters over the hard, scar-streaked wooden counter. The man behind the counter raised a slight eyebrow and began to raise a callused finger towards the cheaply laminated sign over the magazine rack blaring 'NEWSPAPERS 25¢ EACH', then thought the better of it, and pocketed the money. Ratzinger made his way over to the waiting terminal, the newspaper tucked in the crook of his arm, and his worn leather suitcase hanging by his side. The terminal was crowded, with people bustling about the stairways and winding tunnels, their faces filled with anxiety about who-knows-what; it was none of his business, after all. Several particularly anxious patrons grew weary of waiting for the next arrival, and hurried up the exit stairs, to the surface roads to hail a taxi. Ratzinger his way through the crowd, putting an iron grip on his suitcase and wallet; subways were not the best place to flaunt your wealth. He finally secured a place among the crowd a bit too near the edge of the platform, and tried as politely as possible to elbow any other people who tried to bump him from his place.

The antique halogen lamps cast a faint light onto the terminal, flickering on and off without warning, reminding him of a black-and-white detective movie he had seen about a week earlier. Hell, he'd be damned if there was an 80's detective movie on Earth that _wasn't_ set in New York. Could they do that?

A rapid rumbling could be heard in the bowels of the tunnels, and a pair of glaring lights pierced the inky blackness. The subway arrival barged into view, and slowly came to a screeching halt. There was a slight pause as the doors, and an equally large crowd of people surged outwards from within the subway car. Ratzinger cautiously pushed his way into the car, eager to grab a seat near the back, away from all the dozing grandmothers and poor urban factory workers coming home from work at the downtown plastic plant. He set his suitcase down onto a relatively clean seat and tried his best to ignore a slightly discolored stain on the plastic stretching. People continued to stream in, scrambling to grab seats; among them, a gaunt, heavy-set figure squeezed into the car.

He was at least a head taller than everyone else, and at least twice as broad; a long duster coat hung from his large shoulders, underneath, which laid a particularly large belt, lined with bulging leather pockets. He walked with a gallant yet cautious stride, as if trying to hide something; or, Ratzinger thought in the corner of his mind, to hide _from_ something…

But as the stranger drew closer, Ratzinger's attention immediately shifted to his face: it was a dark tinge of red, like someone with an extreme case of sunburn. The glaring neon lights gleamed off two large…_stumps_ on the man's forehead, casting long shadows over his beady eyes. Yet, those eyes seemed to glow on their own, between badly trimmed sideburns and a week's growth of stubble. In the swarm of crowded passengers, he was like a monolith, his huge physique overplayed with light and shadows. People gave him a rather wide berth, seeming to have noticed the stranger's…rather unique appearance.

Beneath the cover of his newspaper, he could feel those eyes staring at him; he pulled his briefcase a bit closer.

With a creak and a hiss, the doors slid shut, and a jolt was reduced to a shudder, as the car inched its way along the track. Obnoxious Brazilian music softly sputtered from speakers on the ceiling, scratchy and hollow. Definitely out of an 80's mystery flick. But Ratzinger was not thinking about detective films; oh, no, he was thinking about those drowsy Sunday mornings at the old community church downtown with the Christmas lights still up, where his wife kept poking him and warning him of God's judgment if he kept falling asleep while the Father preached. He could barely remember what the old crone was screeching about; what did it matter to him, he was a doctor. He was a follower of Darwin, not Christ. But now, as he sat meters away from that burly red creature, he believed. He prayed to Jesus, to 'let this freak get the hell off at the next station'.

The rapid rumbling of the tracks slowed to a steady rhythm; a faint screeching could be heard, as the light of the next station came into view.

"_We are now arriving at Grand Central. For your safety, please…" _a pleasant female voice droned. Ratzinger watched as the car emptied by half in the matter of a few seconds.

'_Ah, New Yorkers; always in a hurry._' He mused to himself.

Carefully, he lifted his eyes towards the center of the dirty floor, hoping to see the strange man exiting the subway car.

A pair of fiery yellow eyes stared right back.

Ratzinger shivered.

The train rumbled forward once more, albeit with fewer passengers; it was about forty minutes into rush hour. He was about to check his watch, when a slight creaking attracted his attention. He turned in time to see a huge stranger-correction, _the_ huge stranger-take a seat in the column next to him; it creaked under his enormous weight. The man was no longer staring at him, but was absently tracing lines on the plastic windows with his hand.

His _right_ hand.

Ratzinger could not help but stare; the man's finger and hand were at least twice the size of an average man's. But there was something about their texture…scratchy pits and lines and dull shade, giving an impression of stone. The fingers were separated into thick joints that branched outwards from a large artificial stump the size of a tree trunk; it extended almost to the end of his elbow, and made his muscular arm look puny in comparison. The man seemed to notice his stare, but made no effort to hide, as if amused by his disbelief.

The car hit a few bumps, causing the overhead handles to swing, and arousing more than a few dozing commuters. They rubbed their eyes and sat up in the glaring lights, a rather vacant look on their faces. Ratzinger, however, was totally awake, and eagerly awaiting the next stop. The time seemed to slow down on his wristwatch. Two seconds turned to three, and then to four…so slowly…was his watch broken? He examined the knobs and hands closely, in desperation to focus on anything but the weird man. The watch was fine, but Ratzinger continued to gaze at it; the car rolled into the welcoming light of the station, into the eye of an almost vacant lot, desolate save for a single newspaper vendor (who was looking rather bored).

The cars skidded to a sluggish halt; the doors slid open. People rose from their seats and scampered out the hatch, flooding into the bustling station. None boarded.

They were the only ones left on board now; a strange silence passed over the car, disturbed only by the loud chipping of jackhammers in the maintenance rooms. Still, the stranger sat, gazing nonchalantly at the ceiling and tapping his feet to the rhythm of the faint lounge music.

_Feet_? Ratzinger looked away, burying his eyes into the sports section; he didn't even _want_ to know. But he knew. He had seen: they were _hooves. _A pair of shining black hooves rested on the end of each leg, like miniature goat feet, crossed on top of each other. Ratzinger felt no weirdness now, only blind terror; the hand could have been an ornament, yes, but these…they looked all too natural to him. He had seen these features only in the stained-glass windows of the church, on the legs of wretched goat-men in hell, tormenting lost souls. They were pictured to have human bodies and curled horns, a foolish creature the church had spun from myths as a necessary evil…or so he had thought.

'_Calm, Henry, calm…'_ he told himself silently; he tried desperately to concentrate on the newspaper, clutched in cold, numb fingers. _'At least he doesn't have the horns…'_

A wayward eye glimpsed the stumps upon the man's head.

'_Oh, God.'_

He meant it. _'Pray, Henry, pray…' _

The train shuddered again as twilight flooded the car. The avenue terminal welcomed them, though there was not a single soul in sight. The tollbooths were empty. No late-schedule laborers rushed to catch their train. Not even beggars were present. A crumpled newspaper blew across the tiles in the frosty night air; there was something eerie about this place, something he had not noticed for a long time.

As the doors slid open to the greeting of a silent lobby, the man finally rose from his chair, his long duster falling in trails behind him. A breathe of relief passed Ratzinger's lips; he licked his cold, dry lips as he felt his stiff shoulders begin to unknot. His eyes followed the stranger as he ascended the wide and vacant stairway, into the shadows of the halls devoid of trademark neon lamps. The doors slid shut with a hiss, but to Ratzinger, it was more of a slam, full of reassurance and finality.

In the dim company of the rows of empty seats, he was alone. He was safe.

He shuddered, as his eyes caught a last fleeting glimpse of the man, quickly disappearing into the shadows.

He had a _tail_.

† † †

'Mm…smells of ghosts…' 

HellBoy slid gratefully into the darkness of the unlit tunnels, away from the blazing lights, away from that wimpy human. Through the man had not said anything, he could sense his fear; he could smell the stench of his terror, growing with each passing stop. It had been the smell of stale sweat combined with Italian meatloaf and Old Spice; he made a silent face at the latter. Who _used_ that stuff?

No, though he took slight entertainment at the man's fear, it was also a stinging reminder of his inhumanity; his features could have been overplayed, yes, his true origins…

He shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind, as he strode deeper into the darkness. He enjoyed being in the darkness; he thought of it as getting in touch with his roots. He enjoyed the company of ghosts, of the putrid air, of his own solid footsteps echoing through the dismal halls of the empty station. It was only in this inky gloom that his physical form did not matter, and only thought remained. A demon, contemplating his existence and trudging through the empty dusk…

"How fitting." he mused to himself, crunching on his words. "Maybe I'll quit the bureau and write poetry."

His inner voice spoke out to him. _'A hell spawn composing poetry? How unfitting.'_

He grunted. "Beats a desk job."

The truth was, he was not a poet; he was a son of Lucifer.

Which, he figured, was the next best thing.

Instantly, all the thoughts he juggled were rammed out of his head, as a heavy load tackled him from behind. His arms instinctively planted themselves onto the floor, as he sprung, delivered a fierce kick with both hooves, and rolled.

He felt impact.

'_Smooth…'_ his inner voice commented. _'…for an imitation of a donkey.'_

"Shut up."

He squinted in the inky blackness. Shadows twisted and stretched themselves in pale light as he moved.

There was something there, in the darkness; he could feel it.

"Hello?"

'Who would guess that even the son of Lucifer had his faults…' 

Another blow struck just above his brow, inducing a hollow pain from his scalp and channeling into absent horns. He spun, lunging; his gnarled fingers groped only thin air.

HellBoy regained his balance, and felt his forehead with a cringing hand. Blood. He was bleeding from a shallow cut above his ear; no doubt, there was something there.

'_One of his faults was that he got angry.'_

He gritted his teeth, staring at the black void behind him. He turned, and was greeted by more of the same darkness.

"Come out, bi-atch!" he shouted angrily; he could faintly see his nervous breath emerge in wispy curls.

'And when he got angry, he did stupid things…' 

His ears picked up a faint sound of footsteps. HellBoy stiffly flexed the cold, numb fingers of his left hand, turning his head slowly; his eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. There was a solid bump near the wall behind him. Whirling around, he charged headfirst into utter darkness.

'…_like charging headfirst into utter darkness.'_

A slight breeze passed him; he took a blind swing, and felt his knuckles bury themselves into cold, soft skin. A dim silhouette flailed as it smacked against the cold floor. It curled up into a tight knot, clutching its stomach and thrashing wildly.

"Bingo." He muttered.

In front of his eyes, a creature shuddered, unfolded, and climbed to its feet. HellBoy instantly registered the creature; a wave of dread flooded over him.

'What in the world…' 

The thing had two little pupils bulging grossly from both sides of its head, as they rolled wildly in their sockets in opposite directions. Warty and pale green skin was tinged a deep shade of deathly grey, the color of ash and rotting flesh; its slimy scales bored dully amidst the darkness. Flies seemed to form a festering halo upon its forehead, where strands of matted hair streamed above thin, slanted nostrils and a mouthful of gnashing teeth, yellowed and chipped.

A frog-creature.

HellBoy tried to contemplate the creature's appearance in his mind, as he clenched his jaw and slowly backed away; the monster growled and flicked out its four-foot tongue, streaming glutinous saliva across the already-filthy floor. A droplet of it landed on the shoulder of his coat. HellBoy watched as the gross bead sizzled and bubbled; a hole appeared in the fabric, as if burnt some unseen acid.

"_Shit._"

The creature immediately pounced onto him, and he dodged too late. Webbed fingers dug voraciously into his back, drawing streaks of blood that stained his thin duster. Giving an angry cry, he lashed out, striking the creature with the back of his fist. It snapped its head sideways, and HellBoy immediately followed up with a vicious clout from his right hand.

Facial bones cracked, as the creature collided with the far end of the wall, into a garbage can; the bin crashed loudly to the floor, its lid flying down the stairs and clanging onto the tracks. Putrid compost poured forth, though its stench only seemed to invigorate the equally rancid beast.

'_A frog-creature…but I thought…at the Cavendish manor…'_ HellBoy reflected frantically to himself, memories flooding back to him.

Immediately, the frog-creature flipped and ricocheted off the wall at lightning speed, springing with its hind legs as it reached hungrily for him. HellBoy eagerly met it with a meaty fist.

Unfortunately, the creature met his fist with a mouth full of razors.

He shouted as pain blood flowed to his left hand, followed by an instant numbing; the toxins in the creature's saliva were already beginning to take effect, as he wrapped his palm in the fold of his coat to stem the bleeding.

The creature was already poised to strike again; it cuffed him roughly across the jaw, knocking him to the ground and into the grime and dirt. He felt the impact of the frog's body upon him, knocking the air from his lungs; stars appeared in his vision. He felt the tongue of the monster wrap around his thick neck, as it clawed at his chest, staining the remaining shreds of his shirt a dark crimson. Flecks of his own blood and the creature's spittle flew into his screaming mouth, filling his tongue with a rancid mix of garbage, rot, and pain.

He could feel the nerves of his neck already beginning to turn icy cold, as it was numbed from the shoulders up. HellBoy could already sense drowsiness creeping in on him; he gasped for air. His uninjured right hand groped blindly at the creature; whether it was the tight hold on his lungs or the deadening of his throat, he knew he would pass out soon if he didn't do something.

He reached for his gun.

The numbing spread further, still. It reminded him of the incidents…

His thoughts began to swim; nauseousness spread over his mind as his nerves failed him. He gurgled a spurt of vomit, choking him, filling his mouth with putrid tastes…

…Liz…Professor Buttenholm…Rasputin…

…can't…breathe…

His hand rested upon a cold metal grip. He eagerly yanked it from his belt, swinging it madly.

It was a flashlight.

Indifferent, HellBoy mashed the switch and rammed the nozzle into the monster's eye. It screeched, as both blinding pain and blinding light assailed him; the frog fell backwards, quickly thrashing around and retracting its tongue. HellBoy yelped and gulped in breaths of air from unconscious lungs. He could feel cold warts on his throat, and spit blood and vomit from his mouth. The buzzing in his brain was clearing up, and feeling was beginning to return to his left hand, along with pain. Still, he could breathe again, and that was all that he needed.

The monster flailed its head, crashing into the overturned garbage can. It screeched, as it sprang to its feet, teeth gnashing angrily…

…and immediately had its brains blown out the other side of its head.

HellBoy blew the gun-smoke from the barrel of his gleaming Colt .95, a gesture he had mastered over years of childhood fascination with cowboys.

"Now _that_ was poetic." HellBoy breathed to himself.

For once, his inner voice agreed.

† † †

From the warping shadows of the night, the creatures watched as the man dragged their companion from the depths of the subway terminal, the body thumping repeatedly on the stairs. The man hauled the heavy corpse by the tongue, which was stretched out and wrapped around his right hand of stone. He strode along the urban sidewalk rather casually, his clothing torn to shreds and a giant frog carcass on his heels. The honking of distant automobiles reached their ears, but they did not hear it; they remained focused on the man, who was now disappearing behind the sharp corner of a small café. They would keep their presence hidden; they were predators.

From the shadows, they would watch.

They would wait.

They would follow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Oh, nice; I'm glad everyone is enjoying this fic. It's nice to get a release from the bleak, gothic, fantasy world of _Diablo_, and take a vacation to the equally bleak, gothic, pop-themed realm of _HellBoy_. **

**Ah, so refreshing.**

**Scenes of Chaos from my head:**

_I survived the night of 1000 Chimney Imp e-mail messages. Click here to see, it tastes like spam._

I'm looking forward to exploiting the legal application of firearms, which was unfortunately unavailable in the fantasy genre. For all my existing fans, old and new, thanks for all for your time and devotion; and for those foreign to my style, I hope you become a believer.

**I do not own HellBoy (the only famous Dark Horse series that was made a movie without being burdened by painful memories of botched campy crossovers with any of those other outdated 80's D-list superheroes). However, my secretary, Mike Mignola, does.**

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**HE L L B **O** Y**

P E R S O N A L H E L L

BY DAVID ZHANG INSPIRED BY THE WORKS OF MICHAEL MIGNOLA 

Hellboy grunted as he trudged down the silent streets, dragging a damn heavy frog corpse that leaked blood and brains, and was beginning to attract flies; a steady trail of dark red smeared its way across the sidewalk. His wounds continued to sting, as the biting chill of the night froze his insides. He took deep gulps of the breeze; winter was coming, that was for sure. Crooked streetlamps towered over the desolate streets; Hellboy paused for a moment to take in the sights of the self-proclaimed Big Apple.

A small park lay on the other side of the street, lined with empty benches and an elaborate fountain that glowed with spotlights installed beneath. Further down, the peaceful atmosphere ended in a bustling plaza, full of mom-and-pop-run secondhand stores. A laundromat lay at the far end, accompanied by a post office and sushi bar. A few cars were parked in the lot, in the air of abandonment that lingered over this place, on the fringe of the Bronx. Even in this time of night, Hellboy could hear the distant sounds of traffic jams, angry swearing, and the constant wailing of ambulances.

A lone set of blinding headlights cruised down the street. Hellboy sighed and stuck out his left hand (his right hand was dragging the frog corpse by the tongue). The taxi screeched a bit and pulled over at a slightly crooked angle; Hellboy could hear jazz music blaring within the car, rocking the frame with every pitch.

Ah, the distinctiveness of New York. He almost expected the driver to roll down the window, stick out his rather flat head, and say the classic line, "_Where to, Mac?_" in a thick Brooklyn accent. Yes, it _was_ like in the movies.

Hellboy strode behind the car and lightly tapped his finger on the lid of the trunk; a click was heard, and he opened the compartment, glancing inside. It was a fairly small space, full of empty beer bottles and spark plugs, but it would do. He hefted the body and stuffed it into the trunk, squeezing the lid shut. The backseat door was already unlocked, and he slipped in; his weight tipped the car to one side, and he slid to the middle seat to balance it.

The driver gave him a bored look through the steel grating that separated them.

"Henh?" he grunted.

Hellboy bit his lip. "Murakaw…Plaza…" He said, trying to read in the dim light from a tattered post-it note he had stuffed in his pocket. Damn, the handwriting was hard to read.

"Huh."

Hellboy snorted in slight disappointment. So much for pizzazz.

The cab slowly backed out from the curb, and made a little U-turn as it sped down the other way at five miles over the speed limit.

† † †

Sights and sounds sped by the fogged windows. Streetlamps lined the sidewalks in an endless row, accompanied by jumbles of telephone wires that stretched over their heads. Industrial parks gave way to silent ghettos, as Hellboy counted the little, narrow houses; chipped paint hung over their wooden frames, and cracked windows were sealed with sheets of duct tape. Low, barbed-wire fences hung around tiny little yards, full of plastic rocking horses and rubber balls.

The driver spoke; his voice was rather hoarse. "So, wadja out in the trunk?" he asked, not removing his eyes from the endless road ahead.

"Counterweight." Hellboy replied, his eyes glued to the window. "The roads are a bit icy, you need something heavy in the back."

The driver nodded knowingly and resumed his silence. Normally, they would be chatting quietly about a new museum exhibit uptown that they took their kids to, or griping about new stock regulations or, god forbid, politics.

After what seemed like hours of silence, the taxi slowed to a halt; Hellboy looked around for a few moments, pulling out a thin wallet from his inner pocket.

"How much?"

"Eighteen."

Hellboy handed the man a twenty-dollar bill, as he got out of the car and retrieved his…er…luggage from the trunk. "Keep the change." He called back.

The building was tall, that was for certain; rows upon rows of windows stacked up to the top; Most of the windows were darkened, their shades pulled down. It wasn't much of a plaza…he checked the address on the slip of paper again, searching for some kind of sign. There were none; there was no plaque upon the plain sliding doors that proclaimed it the territory of one company or another. There wasn't even a cheap sign with an arrow on it that said 'Parking'.

'_Strange.'_ He thought.

Moths floated lazily around the glow of a lamp, their brittle wings flapping frantically to stay even relatively airborne. Hellboy sighed and tugged the frog corpse irritably up the high stairs; it was beginning to smell, and he wasn't planning to drag this thing a moment longer than he had to. For a moment, he considered hopping a cab back to the downtown post office, walking in, heaving the bleeding, stale carcass onto the reception counter, and asking them to mail it to the BPRD for autopsy.

Who knows? This _was_, after all, New York.

Instead, he strode briskly past the double doors, and into the reception lobby. An old red rug was set in the entrance mouth, leading into a rather spacious room, with dark red walls and small paintings hung at various places. A flourishing desert agave rested in its pot, to the left of the hall that led to a block of suites, as well as the single elevator corridor. In the pale light of the shimmering chandelier, a man in green uniform sat in a rusted folding chair, reading a thin comic book and sipping Coke, all the while leaning against a shotgun half-hidden behind the counter. He lifted his eye slightly to meet Hellboy's arrival, and immediately straightened from his slouch. The man's eye studied his appearance, and was inwardly repulsed.

"I'm here with an invitation to Suite 207." He told the man. Was it 207? He'd have to check the directions again.

The guard stared for moment. "Do you…have…identification?"

Irritated, Hellboy lifted the huge frog corpse by the tongue and lifted it to the guard's eye level. Flies swarmed around it, creating a loud humming noise.

"Is this enough for you?" he asked coolly.

The man's face turned slightly green. "Uh…"

"HUH?" Hellboy shouted, shaking the corpse in the man's face. He yelped, stumbling backwards into his metal folding chair. Coke spilled onto his lap.

"Hellboy, agent of the National Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense. If _that_ isn't enough, there's more where this came from." Hellboy said, waggling the corpse again. The guard shivered and nodded, motioning towards the elevator.

"F-fourth floor!" he sputtered.

Hellboy nodded. "Thank you."

Leaving the guard to clean up his mess, he punched the 'up' button on the elevator…wait a minute; there were two buttons, so did that mean there were floors _below_ the first floor?

He shrugged; again, New York.

The doors slid open with a pleasant _ding;_ he stepped on, and pressed the button marked '4'. The button lit up, and the doors began to close.

There was a sickening crunch.

Hellboy glanced down and realized that the corpse he was dragging had caught between the doors at the waist. He pressed the 'open door' key, and pulled the body in; unpleasant odors assailed his senses. His eyes began to water.

As the elevator began to move downward, Hellboy read the letters engraved into the shiny metal: _'In case of emergency, do not use…'_

'_Don't you think you went a bit hard on the guy?'_ his inner voice questioned.

He did not reply.

_Ding._

The elevator doors slid open, welcoming him into an equally bland hallway. He stepped into the corridor (keeping the corpse clear of the elevator doors), admiring the flower wallpaper that spun themselves into hypnotic patterns. Covered lights fixed into the ceiling gave off a warm light in the middle of the night. A small window at the end allowed a nice view of the city central and its busy atmosphere. Gold-tinted numerals were set into each of the doors that neatly lined either side of the hallway; a shower could be heard running in the serene silence.

Hellboy pulled out his cell phone and dialed, putting the headset closely to his ear.

Two rings.

"Come on…"

Four rings…

He heard the slight crackle of a phone receiver.

"_Hello…"_

Hellboy smiled. "Hey, it's me. Look, I was…"

"…_you have reached 489-2178. Please leave a message after the tone."_ said a pleasant voice, the voice of Elizabeth Sherman. It had been years since he'd heard that voice; it sounded so sweet, so angelic.

Hellboy sighed, and let the phone fall to his side. He pulled out the tattered piece of paper, scanning the brief text and redialing the number with more certainty.

Two rings.

Three.

There was a violent jolt on the other side of the line. "_Hello?_" came the sweet voice, albeit in a slightly more aggravated and tinny voice than her answering machine. Ah, how technology distorted things.

"Hello, is this Miss Sherman?"

Liz snapped. "_Look, are you that guy from that porno mag? Didn't I (beep)ing tell you-_"

"No, no! Liz, it's me!" Hellboy blurted. What he really wanted to say was, _'Wow, my phone has its own censor?'_ but thought the better of it.

"_Who?_"

"It's Hellboy."

There was a long silence over the line.

"_Hellboy?_"

"Yes?"

"_Where are you?"_

"Outside you're the door to your room."

"_What? What are you doing in New York at midnight?"_

"Long story."

"_I've got time."_

"I would've gotten here earlier, but I ran into…a…frog."

Hellboy could hear the gears in her head whirring. _"Huh?"_

"Y'know, the ones that Rasputin-"

"_What?"_ Liz exclaimed, for the second time. Hellboy winced as the sound pierced his eardrums; memory was beginning to catch up to her. _"Are you __serious?"_

"The corpse I'm carrying feels serious enough."

"_Oh, god. But I thought…when the old lady died…" _her words died in her throat.

"I know."

Another silence.

"Are you going to let me in?"

"_Uh…well, I was in the middle of taking a shower, could you wait a few minutes?"_

"Sure." Hellboy said, and promptly flipped his phone closed. Apparently, Liz hadn't been expecting him, but that was okay; He wouldn't be staying with her for long.

A pang of sorrow hinted itself at that thought. He glanced down at the smelly corpse leaking its insides out onto the freshly scrubbed carpets.

Now, what to do with this…

† † †

Liz hurriedly sifted through her suitcase, her long crimson hair hanging, wet, over piles of maps, toiletries, and dirty underwear; she finally pulled out her last clean shirt, a thin blue tank top that proudly proclaimed, _'Truckers Do It With 18 Cylinders.'_

When you pulled out a shirt like that, something told you it was time to wash your laundry.

Sulking slightly, she slipped it on, and followed it with a pair of tight black jeans. Ah, black, her favorite color.

As she dressed, thoughts of dread rushed past her brain. Of course, she welcomed Hellboy; they were old friends, back in the day when there were more freaks than they could keep their eye on. But one fear continually lingered in her head.

When Hellboy came all the way to New York City to seek her out, it was usually about the Bureau.

Memories flooded back; the things that they did to her, and, in turn, made her do…

At the last moment, Liz grabbed a black leather overcoat and donned it over the loud tank top, as she reached for the knob; her breath caught in her throat.

There in the doorway towered a huge, brawny form; haunting, terrifying, and all too familiar. Hellboy was just as intimidating as he had been years before. But there was something in his eyes; she couldn't make it out quite yet, but there was something different…

"Hello, Liz." Hellboy said in his usual low, stormy voice. Happy day.

"Well, long time no see." Liz replied, in a slightly more enthusiastic tone. "Come on in…if you can…fit…"

Hellboy nodded, his huge physique struggled to squeeze its frame through the door. It finally forced its way through…and was followed by the repulsing form of a giant toad.

"Whoa, whoa!" she exclaimed, hopping back.

Hellboy glanced back at her, his eyebrow raised. 'Oh, and, ah, you might want to find a box for this fella.'

Liz wasted no time in doing so; from the back of her relatively sparse closet, she hauled out a giant cardboard box. It was relatively intact, to say the least, and looked like, with some proper folding and packing, they just might be able to stuff the corpse in and duct-tape it.

HellBoy passively dropped the body into the box, and sighed as he washed his hands in the bathroom sink; the cool water splashed across his cuts and washed away the traces of blood. The mirrors were freshly fogged and the air damp; a wet bath towel lay crumpled on the countertop. He wiped away the wet mist and stared into the mirror, as a distorted red face stared back.

As he stepped out of the bathroom, his eyes took in the small confines of the suite. It wasn't even a suite, to be frank, but a jerky imitation of a motel room. A picture of a mountain cottage sat in a slightly undersized frame on the dull, papered wall next to the dresser. Another frame hung loosely over the bed frame, housing a painting exactly identical to the first. The hum of an ancient ventilator buzzed in his ears. The unbearable chill stung his nostrils and froze his skin; he sneezed.

"Sorry 'bout the chill." Liz apologized absently, her eyes staring out the window. She sat in a thin armchair at the end of the room, at the end of a small coffee table; a smoking cigarette hung loosely between her fingers. "There's no temperature control for the AC."

HellBoy nodded.

They remained in soft silence for a few moments.

Liz gave him a relaxed stare. "Well, sit down." She said, gesturing to the chair beside her.

He nodded again, and slipped into the seat.

Liz began to speak in her usual unattached manner, her accent hinting of an urbanized country girl. "So, what brings you to New York?"

"Just happened to be on a convenient vacation." HellBoy said thoughtfully, rubbing his rough chin.

She raised an eyebrow. "How'd you find me here?" she asked, not revealing her true surprise at the aspect, considering she had changed her phone number, credit card account and zip code before quitting.

'_Hmm.'_

"Abe had the documents."

'_Getting warmer.'_ Liz thought.

"And how did _he_ get a hold of that information?"

"A little tip-off by the Bureau."

'_Ah, there's the rub.'_

Liz nodded indifferently, staring past the wisps of smoke trailing from the embers of her cigarette. "I suspected as much."

Her eyes wandered into the plain violet sky descending over the high tops of the towering buildings surrounding the hotel; she stared out at the countless stars blinking into the night scene, searching among them for the answer to a question that had yet to be asked.

"So." Hellboy said slightly uncomfortably. "Would it be convenient for you if I-"

Liz turned her gaze back to him. "Stayed awhile?" she finished for him.

Hellboy nodded with silent hesitation. Liz put the cigarette gently to her full lips, her eyes tracing back to the sky.

"Beautiful night, isn't it?" she said absently.

In her heart, she didn't want him to stay; she could be sure of that much. His coming only brought back painful recounts of previous exploits during her tenure at the Bureau. She was trying to run from those memories, to escape the enmity of the vengeful ghosts of her past.

She remembered, as a child, when she had wanted a Barbie doll at the local store; her parents had refused to purchase it, and she cried and pouted all the way home. But more vividly, she remembered the following night:

The night she had burned down her childhood home with her newfound abilities.

_And_ killed her family.

_And_ destroyed the entire block.

Oh, the guilt she had felt then; she was crushed under the weight of her deeds. Thoughts filled her little mind about why God couldn't let her have a happy life, about why she was reduced to this wretchedness, this _curse_. She had wanted to die.

She had wanted to die.

Then she met the man from the Bureau. He told her to come with him, to come to the Bureau; her heart had lightened at the telling of people just like him and her, 'different' people.

True to his word, there were different people, but simply on two sides of the same coin.

Her mind wandered back towards HellBoy. Why was he here? Why was he doing this? She thought of all the times she had saved her life as well as others, with the scars to show for it. He had always been a friend, always taking the hits for those who couldn't. But _her_, on every mission she could remember, she had been kidnapped, beaten, or mind-controlled…she felt so _useless_. And she hated that beyond anything.

Then the answer hit her: He wanted to ditch the Bureau, as well.

She turned towards him. "How long?"

"Mm…anywhere between five days to half a month." HellBoy said thoughtfully, unfazed by the long pause.

Liz pursed her lips, watching the glowing end of her cigarette. "All right."

She could see his shoulders begin to unknot themselves. He breathed a mutter of thanks, and lifted himself from the seat, walking over to the low dresser facing the beds and gently lifting a framed photo propped upon it.

Liz gestured to the photo. "I carry it around with me. It reminds me of home."

HellBoy nodded, examining the picture. It was an old photo, judging from the worn ends and faded image; in the front stood a row of slim scientists in white lab coats, their bearded faces sullen. Liz stood with them, a broad smile upon her young face; she looked about the age of nine, her short hair tied into thin braids that hung over her shoulders. To the side, there stood Professor Buttenholm, his shoulders slightly sagged.

And then there was _him_. There he stood: Hellboy at the age of eleven. He was surprisingly thin and fragile, his giant right hand hanging to one side, and two small horns weaving their way from his forehead, contrasting with his buttoned shirt and formal trousers. Beside him lay Mac; the old dog looked rather jumpy, posing for the camera. HellBoy read the letters arranged on a display board in front:

BPRD FACULTY AND PATIENTS

FAIRFIELD, VERMONT

AUGUST 1951

HellBoy sighed. Yes, the good old days were gone, to his disappointment. Childhood had been so wonderful, being a boy from Hell and being under the constant surveillance of the government's lapdogs.

He sat back down, handing the photo to Liz, and sinking back into the chair. She looked at the image before her; the cigarette smoking in her hand, as she tried to hide the saddening in her eyes. After a moment, she shook her head, and rested her forehead between her fingers, letting out a deep breath.

Silence passed between them, as the night went on by the second.

She sighed and choked slightly. Then HellBoy realized that she was weeping.

"Liz?" he asked politely, leaning in closer.

Liz sniffed loudly, wiping her eyes, as the tears continued to flow. "…I'm…s…so…sorry…I…just…" she sobbed, trying desperately to form the words in her mouth.

"No, it's okay. It's okay." He said to her in a slightly nervous tone.

Liz nodded, as she wiped her red eyes with a handkerchief, trying to stifle her sniffs.

HellBoy picked up the photo from the tabletop and looked deeper into it.

"I reckon." He said quietly to himself.

"What?" Liz finally said.

"Old Mac's height really _was_ higher than his IQ."

Through tears, she laughed; it was the most beautiful sound he had heard in a while, and he joined in. There they sat, lamenting about the good times, and they laughed.

_(Begin playing 'Photograph' by Nickelback)_

And they laughed together, as the pale moon rose to choir ever with the glittering stars overhead.

† † †

¢®∑)¡†§

DraftingDavid 'Zhang'

Editing Daniel 'Bobathon'

Night Guard Jack Daniels

Formatting/Conceptionist Edward 'Prinzo'

----------------------------

Wow. That was quick. Ed's having a little trouble with his Internet company, so his story's going to be postponed until possibly late in October.

I'm working on my Diablo fic after I finish writing this chapter, but I'm caught in a paradox between the evil waves of writer's block and my inner muse, who is brutally whacking me into submission with her stick of inspiration. It's sounds kinky, but it isn't.

Until next update,

David 'Zhang' at Hill Prod.


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